


song to say goodbye {wayhaught au}

by GWritesNovels



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Guardian Angels, Angst, But the first chapter is HEAVY with what has been tagged, F/F, Gen, Guardian Angels, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It gets lighter, Nicole Haught Needs A Hug, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt, Tags May Change, Waverly Earp Needs a Hug, please be careful reading this, trigger warning, vent fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 19:51:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21415738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GWritesNovels/pseuds/GWritesNovels
Summary: "Now I'm trying to wake you up, to pull you from the liquid sky. Cause if I don't, we'll both end up with just your song to say goodbye." ~ PlaceboNicole Haught can't see the point in living anymore. All she can see, all she can hear, all she can feel is the endless void of depression that consumes her will to keep fighting. But on the night she decides to give up on herself for the final time, a stranger appears to talk her out of it. Because Nicole isn't going anywhere. Not on her guardian angel's watch.
Relationships: Waverly Earp & Nicole Haught, Waverly Earp/Nicole Haught
Comments: 12
Kudos: 47





	song to say goodbye {wayhaught au}

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! Thank you so much for your interest in this fic! However, before you begin, PLEASE check the tags! This book (especially the prologue) deals heavily with mental illness and suicidal ideation. I just want everyone to be safe and in a good headspace while reading. Remember, I love you so much. 
> 
> If you are experiencing suicidal thoughts or urges, please contact the Suicide Hotline at 1-800-273-8255.
> 
> Stay safe, stay alive. You are worth it.

As Nicole Haught sits under the brightly burning lightbulb in her dorm room at three in the morning, she wonders exactly how she will end her life tonight.

She’s been twisting the sharp razor blade between her fingers for an hour now, tracing the edges carefully and wondering what it’ll feel like to slice her skin open for the first and last time. Beside her, she’s tangled up her bedsheets and fashioned them into a noose. In front of her sit two empty pill bottles, their contents spilled out onto a paper towel. Sixty antidepressants should do.

How does she want to exit? Suspended in the air, choking out her final breaths? Her body going numb and everything fading, potentially choking on her own vomit? Pain running through her body as her heart pumps out the rest of her life through her jugular vein?

She really, honestly wishes she was allowed a gun.

Ever since she can remember, she’s had a fascination with the thought of her head exploding. That’s how it always feels inside of her brain, so dying the same way would be nothing short of a relief. Bloody chunks of skin and brain blowing in every direction, hitting the wall, sticking to the floor, bullet having sliced apart every single thought in her head so she won’t have to consider a damned thing anymore.

That’s all she wants, the barrel of a shotgun in her mouth, finger on the trigger. And then to cease to exist.

But if she lets her obsessive-compulsive disorder fixate on what she can't have, then she'll miss her chance. 

Her roommate could be back at any given moment. How ironic it is that the other girl left to prevent a suicide only to come back to one? Nicole laughs bitterly. She's got to hurry this shit up.

She casts her gaze to a few feet diagonally from where she's sitting. Her notebook, the one that's accompanied her through this hell, sits open to a blank page. Two hours ago, she sat and sat and tried to think of an explanation for the one person who gives a shit about her. Another irony: before, all of her false alarms brought her to tears, caused her to be an absolute blubbering mess as she wrote out every thought on paper. But now that it's the real deal, she has absolutely nothing more to say.

Even if she did, how the hell is she supposed to explain the clusterfuck of emotions in her head?

Bipolar disorder. 

Those two words the only way.

Well, and obsessive-compulsive disorder.

She's been absolutely fucked since the day she was born.

And honestly, Nicole can't even remember the last day she didn't contemplate suicide. There hasn’t been a twenty-four hour period in years, she believes, where the thought of ending her own life hasn’t flickered through her mind. Most of it is from not taking her meds correctly.

Most of it is her bipolar depression eating away at her, consuming every emotion and leaving nothing but an endless void inside of her mind and chest. To her, Nicole Rayleigh Haught died at the ripe old age of twelve, and now she is nothing but a hollow shell that needs to be laid to rest.

Or, one percent of the time, she’s in her hypomania, absolutely elated yet still seeking her release, her end. Her highest high mixed with her lowest low. Standing in front of the mirror and smiling, gripping the sink tightly as she imagines slamming her head into the glass hard enough to break it. Finding the biggest shard and sliding it across her wrists, painting in her own blood and digging, ripping out her veins, slicing up her stomach and thighs and throat---

One final irony: to leave this world the way she came in, covered in blood and without a sound.

For the rare occasions when she’s able to take her pills long enough for them to get in her system, it’s the obsessive thoughts that do it. It’s that fucking man in black, the one that’s stalking her, threatening her.

He isn’t real but she can feel him.

He isn’t real but he’s always waiting, whether it’s in her closet or under her bed or outside her room, ready to walk right through the door or climb in through her window.

He isn’t real but he’s going to kidnap her, torture her slowly.

He isn’t real but she has to kill herself before he gets to her.

He isn’t real but he controls her entire life.

There’s no way in hell she’s ever going to be happy again. Shae, her best friend, keeps telling her that there is. She says it’s coming, she says Nicole just has to wait.

But the redhead is so damned tired. She’s been waiting for years for just _one_ good day.

Shae will forget her soon enough, anyway. Everyone will.

And it’s going to be good for her family. The family who will never let her be who she fucking is. The family who won’t understand her pain, who wouldn’t get her help when she asked but instead told her to suck it up and deal with it. The family whose image is more important than her life.

They’d rather have her dead than mentally ill and seeking help. And they’d much rather have her dead than in love with a woman.

So she’s lived the past six years of her life absolutely fucked. Fucked all the way up until now, as she sits in the floor and decides upon which way she wants to go.

Covered in blood and without a sound.

Full circle.

From when she was born and absolutely refused to cry, to clear her lungs, to the age of eighteen, holding in a breath as she takes a blade to her throat.

And dammit, she still refuses to cry. Refuses to mourn when she should be celebrating.

The Earth’s going to be a bit of a better place in a few minutes.

Finally, Nicole stands up and grabs her makeshift noose, untangling the knot in the sheets before placing them back on her bed the best she can with violently shaking hands. It needs to look natural.

She makes up the bed robotically, then turns to the pills on the paper towel. Sliding them back into their respective bottles, she pops the lids back on and sets them on her desk. Natural.

When she dies, she needs to be considerate, she decides. Be a decent human for the last time. So when she picks up the razor blade, she also grabs an empty gallon jug of milk, hoping that it’ll at least catch some of the blood.

Sighing, Nicole takes one last look around the room and turns on her phone. She needs to at least tell her best friend goodbye. Still shaking a little, she clicks on the messages between her and Shae. _Thank you so much for everything_, she types. _You’re the best, and I love you. I really do. Haught over and out._

Then she turns it off and sets it back on the desk before turning the lights out.

Finally, the redhead makes her way down the hall and into the bathroom, failing to notice the small brunette quietly slipping in behind her.


End file.
